Limits
by Violet911
Summary: There was no threating tone in his voice, but there was tension in the air, a kind of thickness that's bottomless; in a way that says I've been through a lot of crap in my life, but that's okay, because I know there will be more in the future, so just don't mess with me. It was something that Dan could relate to, in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, peoples behind the fourth wall~! **

**Before I think of continuing my other fan fiction in this same crossover category called "Worldly Connections" about the nations being indirectly involved with the Cahills or my other pending 39 Clues fan fictions, I decided to make a fanfic from an idea when I read "A King's Ransom" while watching a rerun of my favourite ****Hetalia**** episodes, starting from the very first episode.**

**Actually, this takes place in "A King's Ransom" during the middle part of the book.**

**Also, I'm gonna hint some of my (currently) favourite pairings, though there will be no indicated romance between them. You might or might not know what pairings I'm talking about, so please do not maim me if you do figure some of them out or mistaken them for something else.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you've seen or heard on any form of media.**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Basel, Switzerland_

A small alarm beeped a few times in the background, causing a nation to stir in his sleep, only to stop in a manner of seconds. Light streamed through the curtains, landing on the man's closed eyelids. The glare made them flutter open in a lethargic fashion. A hand reached out for a pair of glasses on the bedside table as its owner groggily sat up on his luxurious hotel bed, jamming the bridge between his eyes after blinking a few times.

Dragging his limbs and feet lazily out of bed, blue irises squinted at the penetrating sunny rays from the outside. With the curtains in arms reach, he spread them wide open. The dim room was illuminated in a heartbeat.

"Man," he groaned, scratching his blond hair in frustration, "I'm still in Switzy's place."

Though after remembering the important detail why he's still here for the past two weeks and quick glance at the digital clock on the table, he forced his foot into his brown pants while fixing his dark red tie. In record time, he was dressed as any old bored business man out there in the world, with the exception of his young-looking energetic face.

Feeling the weight of future punishments (and obvious arguing) for being late, he rushed out of his bedroom suite and called for his brother.

"Yo, Canada," he yelled out. "I'm going to be late for another meet—"

He caught sight of a plate stacked with pancakes and maple syrup, topped with the Canadian flag, on the dining table. There, under the fork, was a note. It said:

Y_ou're late. Here're some pancakes if you want some when you wake up. I'll be covering for you until you get to the conference. You owe me another favour or, better yet, ACTUALLY WAKE UP ON TIME!_

_Love your brother, Canada_

A sigh escaped his lips. He wasn't sure why he woke up at this hour either. He knows he always wakes up in time, since he was the hero . . .

Though he's sometimes arrives late, but that's another thing.

After minutes of debating whether he should just go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day since he's already tardy or go to the meeting, he checked his wrist watch, letting out another sigh having a tinge of exasperation. "Oh, well! Better late than ever . . ."

After pocketing the room keys and grabbing a sticky cold pancake, the personification of America, also referred to his human name as Alfred F. Jones, left the hotel building with his legs pumping and his cowlick hair called Nantucket flowing through the wind.

However, he forgot to lock the room door.

* * *

He burst through the double doors and was suddenly greeted by a soft click and a bright flash. All the nations present in the room laughed their asses off to their hearts content while America's friend lowered his camera with a small sheepish smile plastered on his face.

"_Gomennasai__, Amerika-san,"_ said Japan, his head tipping forward to bow. "Your brother wanted to record how you would act to the simple prank he has done in your bedroom."

The super-powered nation raised a confused eyebrow. "What are you talking about? Aren't I late?"

England chuckled, "Idiot, what's-his-name changed your alarm while you were sleeping so you'd wake up 2 hours early." He folded his arms and propped his feet on the table with pleasure, placing his Sherlock-Holmes look, saying in a contemptuous tone, "And it worked too, judging from how you buttoned your suit, untidier-than-usual hair and the maple syrup on the cheek indicating you rushed your dressing and breakfast. Not that it was difficult to trick you, by my years of observation in raising you. You could sleep through a demolition derby (save for your national anthem set in your alarm), and your brother is practically invisible to you."

"Though I must say that I am very disappointed on how hypocritical _l'Angleterre _is in remembering certain things, I have to agree," France piped up, sipping some wine beside his friend/enemy in a very flamboyant fashion. "He's just over there, _mon ami_. See for yourself, _mais franchement, je m'en doute. _He's still invisible to your eyes."

America whipped his head to his side to find Canada, with his bear Kumajiro wrapped around his arms, sitting down and staring out on an open window sill that viewed to a peaceful garden. His furious brother marched right up to him.

"Hey, dude, what's gives?" he asked, fist poised on his hips and lips forming a pout. There was a gleam at the corner of his glasses as Canada turned his attention to him. "Messing with my alarm. Curtains not fully closed. And no bacon with my breakfast! Not cool, man."

"Sorry, bro," the purple-eyed lookalike man apologized with a shrug, very nonchalantly. "This is partially an act of revenge for being mistaken by you for so many years. It's a small since I've forgiven you already, but it gets annoying when it's brought up from time to time, you know."

"Oh," his neighbour breathed, realizing what he meant. He scratched the side of his blushing cheeks, trying to look away from his twin's concentrated gaze. ". . . I'm . . . sorry, too. You know . . . I am, really."

Japan took a cue and snapped the scene into his digital camera's memory forever. No one seemed to mind. It actually helped as a distraction for America from the looks he is getting from other countries.

Canada nodded and gave a faint smile, which made America feel guiltier. Yes, even though they were neighbours and brothers, he often forgets Canada's existence. And when he does get noticed, they assume he is his burger-loving brother and start hostile towards him.

Now that America thought of it, he was glad that Canada made some revenge on him. However, thinking back on his words . . .

"Wait, what do you mean by partially?"

Canada looked over to the whispering Italian representatives at the end of the table. "The other G20 members have been trying to cheer up Veneziano and Romano from what happened, but so far, nothing is working."

America tilted his head with a sour expression. "Oh, yeah. The pasta dudes are the whole reason we're 'cuz they're still upset about the Garbaggio thing . . ."

A chair's feet scratched pavement as Romano stood up, hands slammed down forcefully on the police reports in front of him that it sent some flying through the air.

"Caravaggio, you fat bastard!" the Southern part of Italy yelled in anger. "NOT GARBAGGIO, CARAVAGGIO!"

"_Fratello_," Veneziano coaxed, tugging the arm. "Please, _calma_."

"Don't tell me to calm down," Romano said, slapping North Italy's hand away from his shirt sleeve and pointing at the North America Brothers. "That other bastard, whoever he is, thinks this little time confusion was going to cheer us up. It's too early in the morning! We should be still sleeping right now."

The representative of Spain came from behind and pulled Romano into a tight hug and, despite the curses, cooed closely to his face to make him feel better. "Don't get mad at them for trying, _mi pequeño tomate_."

America snickered as the bottom half of the Italian nation struggled against the Spanish Armada. And as if his former guardian read his mind, the British man shook his head with the ends of his lips twitching to move up to meet his green eyes.

A bullet ripped through the noise, making all of their attention turned to a very angry guy holding a very dangerous riffle with one hand and protecting a small lady with the other.

"Will you all just SHUT UP? You are in my place, so at least give some respect or I'll shoot you all." Seeing everyone (except Russia) was scared half to death by that shot, he lowered his weapon for a moment to inhale a huge gulp of oxygen, and then he glared at the first person he sees.

This was something, from America's point of view, very regretful to him.

"Since you've momentarily neutralized the chaos, that I must thank you," Austria said coolly, his gaze only directed at his papers, somehow making Switzerland even more frustrated, "this would be a good time to finally report our findings for the connection between the crime of the century in Florence and the so-called accusation for the stolen _Il Milione _in Rome that is now being investigated by Interpol."

The aristocratic country gave his papers to the methodical man in the middle of him and Veneziano and the man took it as a cue to stand up. Clearing his throat and half-staring at his clingy companion on his left, Germany was about to lay out the facts.

America took a seat in the table between Canada and England, which was always reserved for him, while the slightly gruff voice filled the room. Everyone was strangely silent as one of the current German representatives talked, a thing something totally understandable for the younger nation. These thefts are directed from very powerful people that involved the nations for more than 500 years, more so two years ago.

Now, he feels, the final battle is coming soon.

Placing his hands behind his back, the serious blue-eyed man stated, "The report confirms that these two Cahills, Amelia and Daniel, are within the vicinity of this area. And their unusual activity nearby the locations _might be_ linked to the crime, but we can't be certain."

The still-outraged Italian exclaimed, "Might be? _Sul serio_, potato _bastardo_? _Ladros,_ they are! And they're _crimes_, two to be exact so change the music bastard's report." Romano crossed his arms. "Well, _cosa diavolo aspetti?_"

Germany gave a steely stare, which was happily returned with a countered death glare. "How would we know, Romano? They're just _kinder, ja_."

A small laugh was heard from the back of the room and America turned to find a half-asleep albino at the corner by the door.

"_Bruder_, have you forgotten . . . the great Clue Hunt held two years ago?" He yawned, rubbing his red eyes in attempt to stay awake. "They're not just _kinder_. They're Cahills, for crying out loud. Madrigals, even . . ."

Yes, all the nations in the room knew what the Cahills were capable of. But even America didn't know the full potential on the people they were up against, even when they saw with their own eyes the mayhem that family has cause for some stupid hints to great power.

The small yellow bird on top of his head chirped loudly at him, making him raise an eyebrow. "Don't we have some kind of alliance . . . with _their_ branch? That's what the awesome Gilbird says."*****

Germany nodded, only slightly. "_Ja_, we did. Although, it was a onetime deal between us and it was on behalf of their actions for trying to prevent the Clues from falling into the wrong hands. Plus, they improved the system in the United Nations." He groaned as the countries looked at each other and questioned if there was any improvement in the meetings.

"But we can't get any good information from them since the end of the Hunt," England continued after Germany, crossing his arms in dismay, "which I was jolly good for me, thinking that the imprisonment of the Kabra woman (never liked her in the first place) for murder was the end to all this madness. Though sending her to New York is not much of a punishment." He glared at America before the gentleman added, "Alas . . ." while sipping his Earl Grey tea.

"So, the question is," Russia spoke, a blank smile on his face, "what are they doing here in Europe?"

Glance and shrugs were passed around. Now, because the Madrigals united the other branches, the Cahills were more secretive than ever and only pieces data can slip out from local news.

"Let's review then, aru," China suggested, lifting his own papers. "In Boston, men in a fuel truck stopped their school bus and attacked, possibly attempted to kidnap them. Not much in this source. Just kids endangered and possible loss of money from the school system." He gave a look directed at America which the said nation cannot decipher.

Veneziano continued, slightly smiling when he read the fine print. "Then, they suddenly dropped out of school and headed for Florence to steal a priceless painting from the Uffi—"

"We don't know if that's true," Germany prudently cut in.

"_È vero_, Germany!" North Italy cried, his older brother glaring over the younger's shoulder. "They were there and they left three ugly copies, expecting us Italians to think that one of them is the true beauty of the 'Medusa' by the great Caravaggio."

"Well, I wouldn't say it was a beauty," America muttered to Canada, hoping that they wouldn't hear.

But of course, they did.

"Do you have something to say, _idiota_?" Romano's fiery brown eyes transferred to the American's lively blue ones. "They're your citizens, after all. Why don't _you _tell us what this is all about? Why is there another American who claimed to the authorities that those kids also stolen the _Il Milione,_ which hasn't been seen since the time of Marco Polo himself?"

All the attention went to America. He didn't know what to say, so he answered on reflex.

And that method always worked. Most of the time.

"Maybe they were influenced," he hesitantly answered, handling his documents to pretend he was reading, "by, you know, some powerful dude or something, to do all those stuff. Like in my awesome movies, that's been ranking up the hottest blockbuster charts for the past year!"

The looks on the nations' pondering expressions were obscured by amused looks, especially England. No one would admit openly that America's theory had a strong chance of being true, with the course of events for the past weeks, and the obvious signs shown currently, learned from experience; or it'll make the arrogant country's head even bigger.

So, they just took it in a very hesitant consideration. America frowned at that.

Germany cleared his throat after passing shrugs, not meeting anyone's eyes at the moment, as he stood up. "Well, if that is all, dismissed! Come back after lunch. Get some rest, eat, and just get on with your lives."

The nations immediately dispersed from the meeting table before the young nation had to say anything in his part on their consideration. Everyone was too tired for waking up that early to say anything else anyway. The Italians, still grief-stricken, were invited by France, Spain, and Prussia to France's new restaurant nearby to carry on their goal on cheering them up. The two reluctantly agreed, resulting to most of the countries to tag along as well.

Someone tapped the observing nation's shoulder and America turned to see his friends (England, Canada, and Japan) waiting for him to stand from his seat.

"Joining us to this new restaurant, Yankee?" England probed, muttering something in the lines of 'the bloody frog better treat us since he's the one who is inviting' with his nose turned up oh-so proudly.

Being his favourite person to annoy (purposely), America flashed a Hollywood grin while folding his arms behind his chair and leaning back playfully. "Nah, I'll just wait here for the others. You go run along and prepare for your breakfast with the perverts."

"Gladly," said the former empire, quickly turning back on his old colony to the exit after hastily adding, "but not about the perverts. Just the breakfast." The green-eyed man gestured the other two to follow him out but he was already gone by the time Japan even moved.

"Are you not hungry and sleepy, _Amerika-san_?" asked the Asian man straight forwardly, glancing between his wristwatch and what-his-face, standing quietly behind him. "It is 7:42 and you have a very big appetite."

America chuckled, stood up to grasp the two men's shoulders, and turned to Japan. "You know me too well, ya great samurai."

"He's serious, America," his brother whispered forcefully, his purple gaze focused on the tallest man in the room. "Aren't you going to eat, eh?"

His hands dropped to his sides, saying, "It's okay. I ate some of your pancakes you left on the table. Nice cooking, by the way . . . Mattie!" Then he flashed a thumb, grinning ear-to-ear.

The Canadian and Japanese were still not sure about that answer, but they both nodded their heads and walked away, leaving Alfred to his thoughts.

When he heard the slam of the door, he immediately slumped down on his chair and stared at the ceiling. Of course he would do that, 'cause he has no particular thing to do. Except for the party to cheer up the Italian brothers, but he's not really in the mood to party this early.

His stomach grumbled dangerously.

Then again, food could be an excellent motive to join the others.

He shook his head to forget the idea and decided to just to a nearby McDonald's instead. After closing all the lights and doors with a brief farewell to the people running the office building, he was out the building and on the streets.

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**A/N: Well, there you go. My first chapter. **

**Thank you for reviewing. I'll be updating the second one in a few.**

*** referring to my other fanfic _Wordly Connections_**

**The foreign words that I used . . . try to translate them~ **

**(/ ;^v^)/**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello, all of you out there~**

**Here's the update you've been looking for. I already wrote it a long time ago, but I had to put some edits and consult with my beta reader.**

******Disclaimer: I do not own anything you've seen or heard on any form of media.**

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**Chapter 2**

The young nation didn't really get why the Italians were all so stressed for one stupid painting and why the rest of the world cared too.

"I mean, they're easily replaced with the use of Photoshop, right?" he said to himself, his voice reduced to whisper form.

In all honesty, he wouldn't know how important those objects are to the Italians. He was limited to what his history had been written. Sure, he got his own precious stuff over the years, like the Declaration. But . . . his country never existed during the time when there were great empires, conquering smaller nations; when everything was wide and vast for anyone to take. A time where there is limited technology and everything new given to the people made them jump and praise to the Lord for it will help them survive this world, and not like today when a new model of the iPad comes out and everyone expects for the next new _new_ model the very next day. Yes, he knows other countries' histories (though he pretends not to know) and he has heard a lot of tales from England and other former empires about their 'glory days' and 'great discoveries'.

But, what's the point?

America chuckled, licking off the maple syrup on his face mentioned earlier by the Brit. _They sound like old men back in the day._

But hard as it is to admit, they _are _old. All of the nations are old.

_Even I'M old,_ he thought half-heartedly.

However, he's younger compared to them. Inexperienced and even annoying to some. However, very lucky.

Very lucky to have many people giving support.

Very lucky to have many resources and connections.

Very lucky to have many advances in the modern world.

Very lucky to have an influential government and army.

Very lucky to have that kind of power and wealth to give him strength in such a short amount of time.

And he had a strong feeling, for a long time, that the other nations hated him for it.

They'll be genuinely surprised that he notices, but he can read the atmosphere quite clearly. He just chooses to ignore.

_Back can I keep this up?_

_Of course, I can! I'm the hero. Everyone loves the hero~!_

_But, behind my back, they loathe me_.

Sniffing, he stopped walking to lean on a wall beside a trash can and rub his hands close to his face, hoping the friction would produce some heat so it would seem like he was sweating rather than crying.

"Stupid," he muttered, slapping his cheek a little. "You forgot to bring your jacket and gloves. I mean, there's a freaking chill out here and you forgot to bring something warm. Why didn't I bring it in the first place?"

His head tilted upward as his hands now rubbed his arms in a cross position, his mind clearly in deep thought from his focused expression on a cloud floating above him. Or was that mist . . .

Then it hit him, like a Yankees cap in his face. He was in a rush and he left his signature bomber jacket on his bedside. The only reason why he didn't feel cold when he went out is because he was running fast all the way to the meeting room.

Actually, a real Yankees cap did hit him on the face, so hard between the eyes it almost knocked off his glasses. When the object dropped onto his open palms, he caught a glimpse of a boy, probably in his preteens, going around the corner in a hurried state. And having inkling that remembering what happened this morning was not the only reason for getting hit by the kid's hat, he followed the dude.

He regretted the notion when he received a swift kick on the back of his legs that sent him flying-and-free-falling to the ground, particularly his whole backside kissing cold hard pavement in the country of the neutral Switzerland.

"Ow," he managed to groan, before being silenced by a hand over his mouth. Hazily, his blue eyes stared at a distressed pair of green eyes. And it wasn't the first time he saw them.

The last time he saw them, it was on a WANTED poster, printed in English and every language anyone can think of, for being a suspect in the crime of the century.

Sitting up rapidly, he took the hand gag off his mouth with his own hand and pointed at the adolescence face with a surprised look. "YOU'RE DAN CAHILL! THE ONE WH—"

"Dude," the boy hushed, cutting America off by placing his hand once again on his talkative lips, "shut up!"

America was about to say something when they heard some voices coming their way. Without thinking, the free nation stood up like he hadn't been fallen over by a thirteen-year-old boy (an event he will deny if any of his fellow nations find out because of its 'un-heroicness'), picked up the said boy like a sack of feathers without warning, and ran to the best hiding place he could think of, which was his selected destination in the first place.

McDonald's.

It was a mystery on how he was able to pinpoint and navigate his way to find a lone restaurant at the end of the block, near the tram station. Some say it is his hungry fetish for those greasy food choices. Others say it is because of the reality that he was the nation where the famous fast food chain originated.

No one is sure, for certain. This is the United States of America we are talking about here. He is very unpredictable despite his obnoxious predictability.

After successfully entering the building housing one of the best burgers ever made in history, he dropped the kid on a seat with a table and held his shoulders so he wouldn't struggle.

"Let me go!" the green-eyed blonde yelled, flailing his arms around to reach America's face. "I'm going to kick your butt if you don't!"

America chuckled. "How're you gonna do that, little man?" He looked down at the adolescent as the dude glared up at him. "But seriously, I'm not a bad guy. I'M THE HERO, and I just want to talk, with some burgers on the side. It's really important that I need to know something about you and your sis. Come on, we're both American here."

He didn't add anything hasty or cliché like "You could trust me" or "I won't put you in danger" or something else along those lines. Dan Cahill will know it's a lie. So, he just said what he wanted, and he said it as bluntly as it is.

Dan stopped, and stared long and hard on blue irises through some slightly blurry eyewear. "Are you a Cahill, and not some kind of Vesper?" he asked.

"No," He answered calmly, shaking his head, though that didn't actually answer the kid's question. And he sure didn't know what a Vesper was anyway. "But there are people who knows who aren't Cahill, right."

It wasn't a question. Of course not.

Green eyes stared into blue behind clear specs, studying and trying to uncover any secret hidden in them. America sensed he finally convinced the little kiddo when he crossed his arms and sighed, "Fine, but it has to be take-out 'cause I need to get back somewhere fast."

The nation silently whooped by just fist bumping the air and Moonwalked towards the cashier. Some odd glances were directed at the two blondes, making the younger one bury his head under the table in embarrassment and the older one more hyped.

He turned and smiled at the cashier girl, while still keeping an eye on his company waiting on their table to make sure he doesn't bail on their appointment. "Gimme three orders of Big Macs, two large fries, an extra-large Diet Pepsi, and a medium chocolate shake! I'm going to eat light today because I gotta babysit," he added with a shrug. "Oh, add a cheeseburger and a large Coca-Cola for the kid. Put it all on take-out."

After paying for all of the food (it was a good thing he didn't forget his wallet that morning), the two boys hit the road.

* * *

"So, before I get interrogated for something you have no proof on," Dan started, grabbing his unasked fast-food, "I wanna know who my interrogator is. Least you can do for kidnapping me."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" the man shouted, waving his hands in the air offensively. "First, let's get something straight. I'm not kidnapping you. We're just to have a chat with some great food."

"I'm not really in the mood for McDonald's actually," said Dan, as he sipped his drink. _But it looks like Specs isn't listening. _

"I mean, do I look like a kidnapper to you?" he asked, arms outstretched with his items in hand as they walked to the station. Dan raised a finger and opened his mouth but his 'kidnapper' continued before he could say anything. "All I'm saying is that I'm not really holding you against you're will. You can leave me anytime, but I wouldn't suggest that if I were you."

The boy glared at him. "Are you threatening me? If you do know about the Cahills, you would know what we are and what we can do. I have contacts, all around the world, even here. One call, and I could bring the best agents — the one that don't hate us anyway — here and make you disappear. Against us, what can you do on your own?"

His blue eyes seemed to sparkle when he gave Dan a strange smile. "The name's Alfred Jones, kiddo. You do not know what I can do on my own. For now, be thankful you're still standing where you are."

There was no threating tone in his voice, but there was tension in the air, a kind of thickness that's bottomless in the way that said _I've been through a lot of crap in my life, but that's okay, because I know there will be more of that in the future, so just don't mess with me_. It was something that Dan could relate to, in more ways than one. And he could tell the guy's telling the truth, because there was also pain behind his voice, like he was tired to hide anything but still had common sense to keep the big thing secret and just give the general idea.

Two could play it at that game.

"I'm too old to be called kiddo," muttered Dan, wondering about his au pair and the other hostages' safety while looking on the floor as they headed for the tram in a hurried pace after buying their tickets. Alfred quickly followed into step, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"No, you're not man! Nellie never stopped calling you that," he said nonchalantly before slurping his soda drink, ignoring a shocked Dan who stopped in his tracks. Alfred looked back and stopped walking, raising an eyebrow at the boy as he continued to drink.

Dan couldn't process the whole thing. "Y-you know Nellie?"

The guy just shrugged. "Gomez and I dated once."

It wasn't even a lie. Alfred showed a picture of them together, arm-in-arm, that made Dan's stomach twist. He told the Cahill that he and Nellie were in a cooking class before. Alfred wanted to learn how to cook his own fast food. Nellie was just in it for cooking. They talked and chat about random stuff. By the end of their first class, they were together. It ended when the cooking program was over. He said it was just a one-tine thing anyway. He didn't know her that much. It was fairly coincidence that he crossed passed with her and somehow getting her to mention about how she calls children 'kiddo'.

To Dan, this man in front of him has known about him, his history, and the people around him for a long time. Knowing Nellie just proved his suspicions. He wasn't convinced with what he said or who he is, and suspects that Alfred knows that. But he has to give Jones credit. The dude certainly is good with hiding thoughts well, and is not much of a threat seeing as they're in public.

Still, Dan was still on his feet for anything.

"When was that?" asked Dan, walking up to him. "Nellie sometimes nags about her ex-bfs and all that lovey stuff. Sometimes even mention names. Never heard of you or your kind of type before. Some kind of college boy all-star or something," he added, looking at him up and down. "You look around twenty . . . but . . ."

"It's a genetic thing," the other waved off, continuing their journey to board their transport. "And it was recently actually. We just broke up like two months ago. How is she anyway? I heard she entered in another cooking program, somewhere in France. Nice desserts, but sadly small meals." He muttered something under his breath about convincing someone about food portions.

Dan's face darkened at the thought of Nellie's current situation. "She's . . . in trouble."

Alfred stopped slurping but didn't break his stride nor his gaze ahead directed at the entrance of the tram. "She is?" he questioned.

"You should know." Dan pointed at him reprovingly.

"Honestly, I don't," he answered calmly, ignoring the accusing tone, as he took out one of his Big Macs and made a large bite. "Zatswhtt yfnted eshkgoo." Burger bits sprayed all around.

Dan almost broke his dark façade because of how hilarious Alfred looked as he ate and spoke, but then he reminded himself what he is in for. "Dude, I respect someone to talk while eating, but this is not the time."

Alfred gave him what looked like a pout, and then he took a sip of his drink to swallow what was left in his mouth. "That's what I wanted to ask you. And no offence, but you sound like my brother and my friends. All responsible and that stuff."

Dan made a sour face. "I sound like what? No, no. Please don't tell me I'm going through some weird phase that will make me lose my awesomeness and turn into those goody-goodies."

The man shook his head and gave a smile. "Nah, that's life."

Dan blinked. "I think that's the smartest thing you've said all day," he said.

Alfred laughed, trying to look mad but only giving a grouch. "Hey!"

Dan let crack a huge grin as they board the tram.

_Just this once. We still have business to discuss._

* * *

**A/N: Well, there you have your second chapter.**

**Please review and tell me all your thoughts . . . or I'll read your minds instead.**

**WOOOOO~**

**I'm so lame. **

**Till next time,**

**Violet911**


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